Truth in Death
by dairygirl
Summary: What does the demise of Voldemort mean to Harry? Aftermath on the final battlefield. [one shot HD]


Truth in Death

_Disclaimer:_ Harry Potter and the associated universe are owned by J.K. Rowling. I am merely borrowing the people and places for a short while.

Many thanks to my reviewers. I treasure your feedback.

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A brief glance around the surrounding landscape would make one think there was soft, fluffy snow falling from the sky. But looking a little closer, you would recognize the bits were too dark grey to be so. In fact, it was ash swirling in the air, coating people, trees, buildings and ground in a suffocating blanket of charcoal. Fires both magical and mundane had consumed any available tinder, some sources too gruesome to speak of and this was the resulting fallout. Hot ashes stung eyes and nose while tasting hopeless. Harry Potter could only stare at the smoldering fire in front of him, the remains of the man he had been marked to murder. 

Despite the evil wrought at Voldemort's command or by his hand, he was a person, someone's son, and Harry had killed him. The young man could only gaze at the orange embers, dazed and unaware of anything around him as grey flecks settled in his tangled black locks and streaked his dark robes. Unconsciously, he gripped his holly and phoenix feather wand tightly even after the final blow, the arm stiff at his side.

Red light streaked by him, Harry catching it out of the corner of his eye. As he slowly turned, he saw a white blond head dash to his right, wand at the ready for another curse. Exhausted, the former Gryffindor managed to visually track the figure and learn what caused the young Malfoy to look so aggressively determined. A black cowled Deatheater with his white mask still in place had fallen on his left side on scorched grass, but the malevolent eyes peering through carved holes were fixed on the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Wand pointed at Harry, the pinched lips began to speak as the dark haired young man raised his own wand.

"_Expelliarmus_!" the black-clad blond shouted. "_Incarcerous_."

The Deatheater's wand flew wide and knocked the man over as ropes twined around him. Harry was grateful the Dark Lord's follower had been taken care of as his mind could barely comprehend _Stupefy_.

The former Slytherin scanned the area, seeing no immediate threat before his gaze fixed on Harry. Blue-grey eyes took in the still dazed young man, his arm extended toward the unconscious Deatheater, but no words escaped the colorless lips. Draco scanned the ground, recognizing the burnt, sooty Sword of Gryffindor in the middle of a still smoking bundle that could have been the Dark Lord. Coughing, he moved toward the frozen Saviour. The ubiquitous ash seemed to creep in every orifice, irritating throats and tear ducts.

"Potter, are you all right?" the Malfoy heir demanded.

Dull, empty green eyes met the former Slytherin's gaze. A brief nod was his reply.

"He's dead," Harry finally spoke.

"So I see," Draco smirked, nudging the remnants of a cloak next to the blackened Sword.

"I killed him," the dark-haired young man stated.

Eyes narrowed at his companion, the blond moved toward Harry, sensing something off in the other's voice.

"Don't come near me," the former Gryffindor growled.

Draco halted immediately, only a few feet from the one who defeated Voldemort. All evidence pointed to Harry being distraught, not triumphant. The former Slytherin was concerned about the possibility of a mad Harry Potter. An unstable Wizard fully trained in offensive magic who had recently killed the dark nemesis that had haunted him since he was a toddler was not a cheerful prospect.

"I want to check you for injuries," Draco insisted, only peripherally aware no one was approaching their position.

"Nothing a bit of salve and a shower won't fix," Harry stated, his eyes fixed on his school rival.

"Nonetheless, I would like to make sure you are all right," Draco explained soothingly, creeping forward despite the wand pointed at him.

"Back!" Harry snapped, fire flaring in the dark, fathomless eyes.

The blond was glad to see some reaction even if he was courting danger. Then as the Wizarding World's saviour seemed to become more distant, his gaze unfocused, Draco lunged forward and engulfed Harry in an embrace.

Before the green-eyed man could react, the former Slytherin whispered in his ear, "Thank you."

Harry stood rigid, feeling the warmth of breath across his neck and the strength in the arms around him. Someone had not only willingly touched him after his horrible deed, but actually thanked him as well? His mind and body was caught up in the physical sensations: a warm masculine form pressed against his own, a sharp, spicy scent residing in soft blond hair despite the clinging ash, a sure, unwavering presence that continued to hold him.

Head and heart in turmoil, tears escaped Harry's despairing eyes, "But I am a murderer!"

He began to weakly struggle from the former Slytherin's embrace, but the encircling arms only tightened around him.

"No, you did what you had to do, Harry," his rival reassured him. "I know you had no choice, but would you have wanted to see the world fall to darkness, to have your friends killed for who they are and what they meant to you?"

"No, but why me?" Harry sobbed, his body yielding to the insistent arms as he sagged against the warm, strong, comforting blond.

"Because you are brave, you are worthy and you could defeat him. You did in fact. Voldemort is dead and now, instead of fearing to venture into the world, we can begin to build anew, looking forward to the dawn of a new day. Thank you for being my saviour, Harry Potter," Draco reiterated, his grip on the former Gryffindor firm and his tone, sure.

The dark-haired man pulled back slightly, bloodshot verdant eyes looking up at his slightly taller rival. Harry sniffled, staring probingly into clear blue-grey eyes. He could only find sincerity and warmth as he looked into that usually sharp, wintry gaze.

"Why do you care?" the former Gryffindor whispered, his voice almost failing him.

"I wanted my freedom as much as you did. And I would regret having to deal with a new Dark Lord that learned everything from the previous one," Draco explained.

"No other reason?" Harry asked, disappointed at the answer.

Gently, the blond used his thumb to remove the tears from his saviour's cheeks, smearing the ash dulling the skin-kissed skin with the dampness. When both arms were back around the conflicted and sad young man, Draco leaned forward and kissed the former Gryffindor's forehead before pressing his cheek against the dark hair.

"There might be another motivation," he whispered against a temple.

Shakily, Harry exhaled, the tight bitterness surrounding his chest loosening at the confession. Closing his eyes, he moved a bit closer to the welcoming body and rested his still mixed-up head on a firm shoulder. Draco merely tightened his grip on Harry's waist and softly hummed a song the former Gryffindor did not recognize, but found soothing nonetheless. Hands crept up to the blond's neck, arms of a tired saviour embracing his former rival.

And that was how the other victorious survivors of the final battle found them: Harry ensconced in the arms of Draco Malfoy, the pureblood heir of the Malfoy family, as he hummed "Greensleeves" to his boyhood rival. After all, one saviour deserves another.


End file.
